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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26750107">This Gives Life to Thee</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arowen12/pseuds/Arowen12'>Arowen12</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Era, Enjolras was Patroclus, Grantaire being Grantaire, Grantaire was Achilles, M/M, References to Alexander the Great, References to Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore, Reincarnation, among others, references to The Epic of Gilgamesh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:02:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,061</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26750107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arowen12/pseuds/Arowen12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire dreams. It is not always the same dream, though usually, it is the sandy beaches before that walled city, the grass grown dry and brittle from constant warfare and the watering of blood, of wine-dark sea and rosy dawn. There is blood, so much of it for so long, it seems to drench his hands, a river of it. Then he is there, tucked into his side at night, his hair in the oil lamps shines, his hands in his are calloused.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>This Gives Life to Thee</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello everyone, I'm here with my first Les Miserables fic. We're reading the Odyssey this semester and I'm also taking a history course and I just couldn't get this idea out of my head. There's something to be said for the way history likes to have pairs. Also, Poet by Bastille is definitely the theme song for this fic. Anyway, read on and enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grantaire dreams.</p>
<p>Perhaps it would be more apt to say he <em>remembers</em>, but isn’t that what all dreams are in the end? The day’s occurrences twisted almost but not quite beyond recognition, melded with your fears and the little anxieties of life into something indiscernible. Or maybe dreams truly are from the Gods, foretelling of events to come and of the past. It used to seem that way, or maybe he just read too much into it then.</p>
<p>In any case, Grantaire dreams. It is not always the same dream, though usually it is the sandy beaches before that walled city, the grass grown dry and brittle from constant warfare and the watering of blood, of wine dark sea and rosy dawn. He dreams of the heavy armour, the plumes of horsehair which always tickled the back of his neck no matter how long his hair grew to be. The adoring eyes of his brothers in arms, the way the field seem to fold beneath his sandled feet. There is blood, so much of it for so long, it seems to drench his hands, a river of it. Then he is there, tucked into his side at night, his hair in the oil lamps shines, his hands in his are calloused.</p>
<p>That is not the only dream, but it is a common one.</p>
<p>Sometimes instead, his dreams are older, blurry and vague, the bleating of animals upon the air, the taste of the desert hot and heavy on his tongue. And he, crowned in godly raiment, staring at him with eyes that burn, always burning.</p>
<p>There are others too, a few times in the splendour of royalty he thinks, but newer, court politics dancing like sweet wine upon his tongue onto the bitter night. There are less noble ones, lesser-known ones, the sea salt crisp in his hair, the tepid heat of the jungle and the sun that beat down upon their brows, highlighting the moisture there like diamonds.</p>
<p>It has always been one and the other, two in the same.</p>
<p>Grantaire wakes.</p>
<p>Waking is not so grand a thing he muses shifting from the cot on the floor amidst his collection of bottles, at this point it has truly become a collection, and through the single window, the sun shines through them. Perhaps, he should see about finding sea glass, and bottles made of greens and blues to add some colour to the browns which turn amber-like.</p>
<p>His head pounds but it is not so different from most hangovers and in seeking a cure he finds another bottle, tripping over rags gone stiff with paint and tossing aside a brush which at one point or another became unusable. The alcohol serves as his morning ablutions, washing away the taste of the dreams, of the dust and the blood which was once so familiar.</p>
<p>He glances up at the cheap mirror bought once with the idle thought of doing a self-portrait of some kind; now ripples in the metal distort his image into laughter. How sweet the follies of his youth he thinks, brushing a hand over his errant stubble and one through the thick mat of his hair.</p>
<p>Grantaire is certain there was a time where he might have taken great pride in his appearance. Now, he shoves on the same waistcoat from yesterday, smelling rather as a bar might, of alcohol and cigarettes, and shoves his way out of the dingy apartment.</p>
<p> The sunlight streams onto the early Parisian morning and those in poor fortune who clutter her once grand streets. Has anything truly been grand? Claims of progression and the lost glory of the past spit at each other in the streets. Idealisations of the past based off poems and rhetoric, war was never noble, they were never honourable, not really, pillaging and plundering nearby islands and land for what?</p>
<p>The bottle in his hands is lukewarm, as mild as the sun which dapples across the wares beginning to fill the streets, and the cobble beneath his feet is unsteady as he walks with a sway. Up ahead, he catches sight of Bossuet, hard to miss with the way his lack of hair glints in the sunlight.</p>
<p>As Grantaire watches, a carriage passes by dousing him with a splash of water that has likely been in rather unsanitary places. Bousset glances down and laughs whirling around at the last moment and catching sight of him he exclaims, “Grantaire!”</p>
<p>He opens his arms as if to give a hug before glancing down and reconsidering, he’ll likely have to change before Joly will consent to touch him.</p>
<p>Grantaire grins offering his bottle which Bossuet takes with another easy grin, he seems to be full of them today, the liquid through which the sun peers out, seems to shine suddenly. Grantaire leans against the wall, the paint flakes off in places and asks, “And how are we this fine morning?”</p>
<p>“Lucky as always,” Bossuet replies with a resigned shake of his head glancing down at his clothes before continuing, “You’ll be at the meeting tonight?”</p>
<p>Grantaire shrugs, yet undecided on whether the drink will win out tonight. Instead, he shrugs and asks, “They’re outside Lamarque’s again?”</p>
<p>Bossuet nods ringing out one of his sleeves with a familiarity that bubbles up in Grantaire’s chest as he says, “Lamarque is seriously ill. Joly doesn’t think he’ll last much longer.”</p>
<p>Grantaire drinks, the liquid burning down his throat and settling in his gut so as to wash away some of the fear that can’t help but gather there. Did he once face legions of men without a trace fear? It is hard to believe. Maybe he was afraid, sometimes it is hard to distinguish from what is story believed memory and what is truth.</p>
<p>“I’ll see you tonight,” Grantaire settles with, catching sight of Bossuet grinning and saluting before he heads off down the street towards Joly’s, he leaves wet footprints on the cobbles as he goes.</p>
<p>Grantaire turns meandering through side streets, nodding to the prostitutes who catch sight of him, they grin and wave him on. Already, there is a sizable crowd growing in the square, and at the end, like a glimpse of the sun above he catches sight of Enjolras.</p>
<p>He is speaking with passion, as he always does, rallying those around him as Courfeyrac and Combeferre stand at either side. Grantaire hides in the back, though if you asked him that is not what he would say he is doing. Searching the crowd, he sees Feuilly listening with half a smile, and for a brief moment he is certain he catches sight of Gavroche.</p>
<p>They speak for most of the morning, though the people come and go at a steady pace, lives to get to, things to do, and the nearby police watch with wary eyes. Can they sense that a revolution is brewing? Or maybe Grantaire has been around these revolutionaries too long, imagining things that aren’t actually there.</p>
<p>They all watch Enjolras, how could they not? Grantaire cannot tear his eyes away nor tune out his voice. He thinks of legions of soldiers watching him, of the way the whole world seemed to fall at his feet once. But these are different times, blood has already stained the streets of Paris and he doubts this will be a glorious revolution.</p>
<p>He scoffs and turns to leave finding a bar to spend the rest of the day in.</p>
<p>When the sunlight has all but faded, darkening the wood of the tables from a rich amber to something stale and cold, Grantaire departs to the Musain. It is cold, even for June, the weather seems to speak of rain, heavy with clouds and his body aches in penance of remembered wounds.</p>
<p>But the Musain is warm and there is beer or absinthe which makes bearing Enjolras a worthy enough cause.</p>
<p>He trips into the basement which is already alive with cheer enough, he can spot many of the Amis, though, Bahorel isn’t here, probably off socialising with one of the other clubs. His gaze flickers over these friends of his and for a moment he sees the faces, the spirits, of those long passed; relegated to the annuls of history or to dust.</p>
<p>In Combeferre, he sees that man of much-turning, or cunning. In Courfeyrac he feels the joviality of many friends. Sometimes, Jehan reads his poetry aloud and it is as if he is in a banquet hall once more, listening to tales that he has lived and ones he’s never heard of.</p>
<p>Then there is Enjolras, as if carved from marble, his hair spun of fair Athena’s hands, his eyes the foam which birthed Aphrodite. Obviously, he needs to finish his bottle immediately if he’s waxing poetic again.</p>
<p>From across the room, Enjolras catches his eyes, immediately his expression twitches into a frown. The attention, in whatever form, is like the sun after a harsh winter and Grantaire quirks a grin tipping his bottle to Enjolras before collapsing into a seat near Joly.</p>
<p>“Bossuet said you were coming,” Joly comments aside setting his most recent medical text down. Grantaire nods draining the last of his beer, through the liquid, as it sloshes, he watches Enjolras, distorted and yet still golden.</p>
<p>Always golden it seems, never again to feel the touch of old age which as the erosion of the stone beneath their feet may pass year after year. So too, does he remain untouched. After all, nothing gold can stay.</p>
<p>Grantaire rises to his feet and finds himself another drink. When he returns Enjolras is speaking, “My friends, the time we have long prepared for is drawing near. The people shall rise with us, we will claim liberty, which is our birthright. Every man shall be equal.”</p>
<p>He snorts, but he can’t help it, or rather he doesn’t want to.</p>
<p>The room goes still for a second as Enjolras turns to face him, arching one of his sculpted brows, his hands rest on his hips. Though the cellar is dark, Grantaire cannot help but imagine some light surrounds him.</p>
<p>“Is something humorous Grantaire?” Enjolras asks and someone in the room groans, he is certain he sees coins exchanging hands.</p>
<p>“Democracy is inherently flawed, no matter how equal it might appear to be, those who truly need it wouldn’t benefit from it,” Grantaire retorts leaning back and kicking his feet onto the table.</p>
<p>Enjolras frowns, the expression like thunder over the water as he replies, “It is possible though, there will be problems of course there will be, there are problems for every society. That does not mean then that it will be worse than the monarchy, which gluts itself on the suffering of the poor.”</p>
<p>“No, instead you’ll have a group of people seizing power behind the scenes, or the common people will elect the next clueless idiot,” Grantaire tips his bottle and finishes, “Apollo.”</p>
<p>Enjolras’ face twitches and he snaps, “Don’t call me that.”</p>
<p>“Oh?” Grantaire grins absorbing the attention as he once used to bask in it, he continues, “Shall I compare you to a summer day instead? Thou art more lovely and more temperate or perhaps not on second thought.”</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras says his name flatly.</p>
<p>Courfeyrac who had been watching, grins and says, “No let him continue I want to see if he can do it.”</p>
<p>“It’s Grantaire he gets more elegant the drunker he is,” Feuilly comments dryly.</p>
<p>He raises a brow and continues, “Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May/ And Summer's lease hath all too short a date/ Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines/And often is his gold complexion dimm'd/And every fair from fair sometime declines/By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd/But thy eternal Summer shall not fade/Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest/Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade/When in eternal lines to time thou growest/So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see/So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Never was a big fan of his, he was a prick, but he wrote some wonderful stuff,” Grantaire finishes with a shallow bow, his eyes never leaving Enjolras, who is almost crimson with rage at the interruption to the meeting.  </p>
<p>For a moment there is silence, the words hovering, suspended before Jehan sniffs and comments, “Beautifully done Grantaire.”</p>
<p>“I live to serve, but I can see our leader is not amused, some Spenser instead? One day I wrote her name upon the strand/ But came the waves and washed it away/ Again I wrote it with a second hand-,”</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras bites out, those eyes that he has known better than his own, staring at him cold and hard.</p>
<p>He subsides into the chair wrapping his hand around the bottle of absinthe he mutters, “Ἕροσ δαὖτέ μ᾽ ὀ λυσιμέλεσ δόνει, γλυκύπικρον ἀμάχανον ὄρπετον.”</p>
<p>The words travel and for a moment, Grantaire catches a flash of surprise upon Enjolras’ finely carved features. But Grantaire knows he studied Latin in school and therefore, the words are safe, well except for Combeferre who is studying him with narrow eyes.</p>
<p>He is quiet throughout the rest of the meeting, listening to Enjolras speak, watching him with a devotion that would make Hera blush. It is easy to do. He thinks for a moment longingly, of seeing recognition in those pale eyes, of his name laden with all that he is and was.</p>
<p>Grantaire has attempted it before and earned naught but scorn or anger, sometimes the loss of him. No keyword, no gesture, or phrase, no appearance, or land will stir the memories from his mind, buried as the walls of Ilium now are. Only death holds that honour.</p>
<p>Enjolras is speaking and Grantaire glances around the room once more at his friends, it is as if he can see death’s spindly fingers wrapped around their necks, marking with precision where a bayonet or a bullet will fell them. One for Jehan, Bahorel will likely take three, Joly will die quickly, and Enjolras, he will surely die standing tall, he has done it before after all.</p>
<p>Grantaire drains the rest of the bottle, it is bitter on his tongue but it helps to drown out the sands of time which irritate his eyes and clog the arteries of his chest. Too late it seems, for Joly is studying him with concern and asks gently, “R?”</p>
<p>Already, it appears there are tears on his cheeks. He wipes at them, grateful he has not dissolved into weeping openly as of yet and stumbles to his feet, one hand resting on Joly’s shoulder. He will be sad when they die, these are some of the best friends he has had in many lifetimes, he is not in the habit of making them. Perhaps, he will be permitted to die amongst them.</p>
<p>“It’s fine, I think I’ll turn in early tonight,” Grantaire forces the words out, they are sharp, acidic on his tongue and they do little to soothe Joly.</p>
<p>He rolls his eyes nabbing Bossuet and replies, “We should head home early as well, Musichetta is waiting for us.”</p>
<p>Grantaire knows it is an excuse but before he can try to stop their goodwill Bossuet interrupts, “Besides, I think they’re discussing pamphlets again,” he yawns, “I for one don’t want to hand any out.”</p>
<p> He follows them out of the Musain, tucking his coat, ragged as it is, around himself and pulling out a cigarette. He offers one to Bossuet who shakes his head, he ignores Joly’s subsequent shake of his head inhaling the bitter smoke.</p>
<p>“You are alright?” Bossuet asks in that way that makes it sound less like a question, more of a reassurance.</p>
<p>He shrugs inhaling once more before he says musingly, “No one can decide what death is like. Some say it is fast and hot, others say it is cold and slow. Some see light, others nothing but darkness.”</p>
<p>“And which is it according to you R?” Joly asks, amusing him.</p>
<p>He exhales, smoke billowing from his lips, how familiar, “Oh it can be all of those. Depends on how you’ve died. I’ve died so many times now, I think my first was an illness that was quick, the breath of the gods which struck me down. In another life, it was before those city walls, my armour was gone and the arrow struck true. Others I have seen and they have been all of the above and more.”</p>
<p>Joly and Bossuet share a glance, deciding in that moment whether to take his claims seriously or to humour him.</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” Joly settles with his name, it is warm on his tongue, as the summer air is warm. Grand air, that is all he is, air.</p>
<p>“I am fine,” He reassures his friends, he does not smile, for that would be a hill too steep to climb and a warning all its own. Instead, he stubs the cigarette beneath his foot and pauses at the corner.</p>
<p>He can see their reluctance to leave him to his own devices remains, but the night is young still and it stretches out as unfathomable as the sea before him. He is looking forward to bottling the sea and leaving another one for his collection. He turns with a wave and heads down the street, swaying over uneven cobbles.</p>
<p>Grantaire stays away from the Musain for a few days, his heart is sick with love and the sight of Enjolras would no doubt worsen his state or otherwise tempt him to speak of things that should remain in the past. Instead, he hunches over a canvas and tries to recreate the memories of his past.</p>
<p>It is particularly difficult, many of the faces he once knew well have become blurred, a prominent nose, perhaps auburn hair? He alone remains clear, the way the sky is clear without clouds to impede it. He commits him to memory, makes it real in a way that he is never certain of in life itself.</p>
<p>Sometimes, he wonders if it truly is madness, a mind spoiled by the drink (but no that came after), desperately constructing fantasies. But the things he knows, things only confirmed in rare texts or not even spoken of are a truth his mind could not have conjured. At least that is what he tells himself.</p>
<p>He returns to the Musain three days later, to the obvious relief of a few of his friends. Courfeyrac tucks him into a hug, wrinkling his nose at the scent of alcohol which clings like a second skin, Bahorel back from his scouting expedition pats him on the back, and Feuilly passes him a sketch he had left behind the other day.</p>
<p>Enjolras is in prime form tonight, his coat is a brilliant red which in the half-light of the cellar seems as dark as blood. His hands gesture in wide expanses and his very face comes alive. Enjolras has always been a man that loves brilliantly and wholly.</p>
<p>Marius stumbles into the cellar then, tripping over the steps with the gangly youth of a teen, though he is by now a young man. Marius has a certain innocence to his face, one would feel bad for telling him off, like kicking a puppy. He reminds Grantaire of the tales of Orpheus, of a naïve youth, all thin-limbed, and hopeful.</p>
<p>“Marius what’s wrong today?” Someone calls out from the assembled men and Grantaire scoffs watching the emotions bloom openly across Marius’ face. Bossuet beside him shakes his head and with a jostle of his shoulder goes to bother Joly.</p>
<p>They tease Marius about being in love, how could they not? Grantaire believes in love, for all that he is both sceptic and cynical, he’s known it so often and so strongly, it is, at times, so easy to fall in love. With the streets of Paris, with friends, with Enjolras.</p>
<p>Enjolras in contrast, in this life, seems to hold love only for France. Grantaire finds he cannot resent him for it as much as he wishes it to be so.</p>
<p>Marius settles, a drink in hand, Combeferre is watching over him carefully, and Grantaire leans back sipping at his own absinthe. He watches as his friends cast bullets and count their guns, rifles and little ones tucked into their belts.</p>
<p>There is a fervent energy to the Musain today, it is like the night before battle, but one that promises to be easy and with much to gain. His heart aches in his chest and for a moment he hardly notices as Jehan settles beside him frowning over his latest composition.</p>
<p>Grantaire offers him the bottle and he drains a quarter of his muffling his laughter into the neck of it as Marius trips and almost sends Courfeyrac flying. He passes the bottle back to Grantaire and when Enjolras, in the eye of the hurricane, snaps at Grantaire he drains the last of it staring into those eyes he knows better than his own. λατρεία μου he thinks.</p>
<p>Jehan raises a brow, he has a soft face, a kind one, but underneath he is as twisty as the streets of Paris herself; Grantaire delights in it.</p>
<p>Before he can say anything, Gavroche thunders down the steps demanding their attention. His hair is a tangled mess, his clothes are torn and dirty, but his cheeks are ruddy and his eyes bright as he announces, “General Lamarque is dead.”</p>
<p>Silence settles, heavy as the aftermath of a battle, where only the carrion remains. Enjolras is held still, for once like the statues which Grantaire likens him to before he is moving his voice a rallying cry, one that Grantaire could never ignore.</p>
<p>He reaches out for another bottle ignoring Jehan’s disapproving stare, it appears tomorrow there will be a revolution; or at least the attempting of one.</p>
<p>Jehan remains beside Grantaire as their friends move in a flurry slowly trickling out over the hours until even Enjolras has gone. The Musain will close soon, but Grantaire isn’t ready to face tomorrow yet.</p>
<p>They have been silent, the glow of the oil lamps their only voices but now Jehan speaks, “Do you think it will be beautiful?”</p>
<p>Grantaire snorts staring at the dark corners of the room he responds, “No, war isn’t beautiful. But that’s the job of poets, to make ugly things beautiful is it not?”</p>
<p>Jehan shakes his head stealing a sip of Grantaire’s drink, his papers rest scattered across the table, snatches and phrases dotting them at random intervals. Grantaire, is perhaps drunker then he should be as he tilts his head back and admits, “It doesn’t matter, it’s the same old story. We may all die in fact its likely but I will see him again in any case.”</p>
<p>“Grantaire?” Jehan questions softly, his eyes in the dimness of the room seem stark, the sclera too white.</p>
<p>“Do you believe in reincarnation?”</p>
<p>“The idea that our souls reoccur?” Jehan responds studying Grantaire, it is as if a dream, they're alone in the cellar with only the drink and the oil lamps.</p>
<p>He nods taking another slow sip, he feels warm in a way that he usually cannot grasp as he rambles, “I have known him for centuries, for aeons. His soul is as to mine the stars above which twine together through the cosmos. I have fought in battles and wars at his side so many times, he has held my life in his palms since that first life between two rivers. Always the two of us.”</p>
<p>Jehan’s face is open, enchanted at the words Grantaire spins before the expression falls and with a shake of his head he interrupts, “He doesn’t remember.”</p>
<p>“No, not for many lifetimes. I wonder, at times, if he has lived lives where I have not remembered. Other times, I think the Gods have cursed me, and what is there not to curse. My pride, my insolence, arrogance, I have flaws in spades,” Grantaire pauses tilting his head away from the ceiling to stare at Jehan he continues, “Sometimes I think I have met you before, all of you in one life or another.”</p>
<p>Jehan’s eyes are wide, there is something wanting to his expression, a desire no doubt to ask questions, to seek whatever information may be of some value hidden within Grantaire’s mind regardless of the tarnish it has attained.</p>
<p>He frowns and mutters, “I should not burden you with this.”</p>
<p>“It is a heavy burden to bear alone,” Jehan murmurs wrapping his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist, doodling nonsensical patterns before he continues, “It reminds me of the Greeks.”</p>
<p>“I know the story,” Grantaire replies with a grin, “Humans were once one, but the Gods divided them and ever after they try to find their missing half. Perhaps it is apt, though we are older than their Gods. If they do not exist till a certain time, until a culture creates them, then are Gods truly immortal?”</p>
<p>Jehan shakes his head, his expression painfully earnest, “Nothing is immortal, not truly.”</p>
<p>Grantaire nods clasping his hand over Jehan’s he smiles and says, “Come, we should leave before someone throws a fit.”</p>
<p>They stumble up the stairs and out of the cellar, past the main room thick with smoke and chairs stacked on tables, out onto the cobbles of Paris. The stars glint overhead, pinpricks of light in a sea of darkness, as the crest of the wave in the night.</p>
<p>Jehan turns to him, in that starlight, his skin seems translucent, and through him, his soul shines as if through sunlight. He smiles, the white of his teeth in a manner frightening and says, “Take care Grantaire, tomorrow will be beautiful.”</p>
<p>He nods and clasps hands but doesn’t believe the words to be true.</p>
<p>Grantaire goes home and drinks until he sleeps like those long dead. It does little to dissolve omens of war and death which haunt his dreams.</p>
<p>The morning dawns clear and crisp, the sort of day one might remark as unfit for a funeral procession but certainly fit for revolution. Grantaire wakes with the early noonday sun, his head is pounding and outside in the streets he imagines he can hear the sounds of a revolution about to begin. Is it still a revolution if it is only the few? Then, he supposes, they call it a riot instead.  </p>
<p>He rises tugging on his clothes, his hands pausing and pressing into the material as his eyes sweep about the apartment. He thinks for a moment, of tucking his paintings away lest they be found after his death.</p>
<p>Instead, he downs half of a bottle, the only way in which he will face today, and makes his way to the Musain.</p>
<p>He passes the procession on his way, or what has devolved of it, soldiers reel about on horseback and on foot, the people scatter or stare on in terror or amazement. Fortune smiles on him in this and he arrives at the Musain just as the others do. With a roll of his shoulders, he sets to helping with the barricade, chairs, armoires, mattresses, sturdy bed frames, and whatever junk they can get their hands on piles up blockading the outside world from view.</p>
<p>The Amis cluster there in front of the Musain, cheer in the air and a light-heartedness that is decidedly fake or perhaps naïve. Grantaire watches from a corner reclaiming his forgotten bottle, his eyes follow Enjolras, whose words sound like the ringing of a bell on that clear afternoon.</p>
<p>But then, the National Guard arrives.</p>
<p>Nothing gold can stay.</p>
<p>Grantaire is used to fighting, even used to fighting drunk. He has a gun, small but familiar, but he has also brought a long knife, or a short sword depending on the person, and with the first tide he clambers to the top and fights.</p>
<p>It is familiar, achingly so, he laughs, the sound carrying as men fall at his feet. A bullet grazes his temple, a finger on his left hand is broken in a brief scuffle. The scent of blood and gun powder fills the air and for a moment it is a different battlefield, a hundred different ones, men on horseback, the walls of Ilium, the two of them alone.</p>
<p>Then the wave breaks and the soldiers retreat.</p>
<p>The haze of battle clears with the smoke of the guns, Grantaire retreats also to his bottle. Wounds are tended to by Joly and Combeferre in grim silence, Feuilly and Courfeyrac retrieve Bahorel’s body, resting it in an alleyway off to the side.</p>
<p>He spares a look for it over the bottle before he turns away. Bahorel deserved better than this, for a moment he hates Enjolras for leading them to this, for leading these young men to their death. They chose it, but that does not ease the pain of loss which settles like a blanket, as if from childhood, over his shoulders.</p>
<p>The air which was crisp and clear with hope has faded to a dull grey as the sun fades, as life fades. He is sick of death, of seeing it, of experiencing it. And yet, like life, it is the one thing he will perhaps never escape.</p>
<p>Grantaire surveys their barricade once more, Marius is settled against a wall a letter held tight to his breast, beside him Éponine, for it is Éponine though disguised somewhat, watches with a sad expression she cannot hide. Enjolras is speaking to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, while, Feuilly speaks softly with Gavroche, who shouldn’t be here. It stirs something in his chest to see Gavroche, a battle is no place for a child but he doubts any of them could persuade him to leave it now.</p>
<p>They should still try.</p>
<p>“You fought well,” Bossuet says appearing in front of him with Joly at his side who pulls out a roll of bandages with a grimace.</p>
<p>Grantaire shrugs and offers Joly his bottle. The medical student takes it with a fond roll of his eyes dabbing the liquid against the scrape on his forehead, as head wounds do it has bled voraciously, matting his hair and trailing down his face, he is no doubt a gruesome sight. Graintaire hisses, but lets Joly wrap it before offering his finger. Without warning, as is Joly’s wont, he sets the bone into place but doesn’t offer a brace.</p>
<p>“Enjolras has sent a spy behind the guard’s lines,” Joly comments stepping back and dusting off his hands.</p>
<p>He raises a brow, shaking out his hand, and says, “Someone we trust?”</p>
<p>Bossuet and Joly share a glance before Bossuet comments, “He seemed loyal enough.”</p>
<p>Grantaire nods with a shake of his head and the two of them settle together beside Grantaire, speaking in soft whispers of Musichetta; he is torn anew by thoughts of those who will mourn, it is easy only to think of his compatriots, of the easy release of death. But there are those that must live with the consequences.</p>
<p>He has lived after Enjolras has died.</p>
<p>Waiting is always the worst part, Grantaire thinks. In the heat of battle, it is easy to forget one’s nerves and anxieties focused only on staying alive. But when one knows a battle is coming but can do nothing but wait it sits uneasily, like an animal pacing its cage.</p>
<p>“Where’s Jehan?” Someone asks and dully they notice his absence. They call his name but he is nowhere to be found, and when Courfeyrac peers over the barricade there is nothing to be seen there.</p>
<p>The sound of a gunshot later is answer enough.</p>
<p>Grantaire does not weep, not yet, perhaps not again. He drinks slowly and steadily as night wraps them in her cold embrace, dousing the joy of the day with cruel hands and bringing with it the return of the spy.</p>
<p>Who it turns out, is Inspector Javert.</p>
<p>Grantaire swings Gavroche in his arms, ruffling his hair and giving him a sip of his beer when he asks. He grins at Gavroche’s face, trying to hide his dislike of the bitter taste and watches as another man arrives, cloaked in a uniform of the guard.</p>
<p>He saves Enjolras from a sniper. Grantaire’s heart seizes in his chest as he thinks of Enjolras dead, with their friends alive around him. He cannot take his eyes off of him suddenly aware that the people around him, that Enjolras, are now ghosts, dead amongst the living.</p>
<p>The night progresses cold and with watchful eyes, they sit gathered together, the warmth of their friendship keeping it at bay if only for a bit.</p>
<p>Enjolras breaks apart from speaking with the man to sit beside Grantaire in the silence. He offers the bottle and after a hesitant moment, Enjolras drinks, the motion is graceful as with most things he does.</p>
<p>“Ἕμεθεν δ᾽ ἔχεισθα λάθαν,” Grantaire mumbles, their hands brushing against each other as he takes the bottle back. It is like his very breath is transferred through that touch and Enjolras stares at Grantaire with eyes that would be unreadable to any but him.</p>
<p>For a moment, he wishes that it had never come to this. That their revolution had never come, that the Musain bore witness to their meetings and only that. That perhaps he might live out his days watching, always watching from a distance. But Enjolras could never be quiet, has never been before.</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras says his name, scolding and curious in equal measure, it is like coming home to hear it on his tongue.</p>
<p>I’d rather slave on earth for another man. Some dirt-poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive—than rule down here over all the breathless dead. He thinks and for a moment is tempted once more to weep, but the time for such is now buried and gone.</p>
<p>Before he can respond, though in his state he is liable to say anything, the beating of the drums begins once more. The fighting continues, and Grantaire loses himself in it, the smell of gunpowder, his friends around him.</p>
<p>After it is over, Éponine lies dying in Marius’ arms, Grantaire watches from a distance and thinks on the guardsman’s words. The people of Paris sleep in their beds and Grantaire cannot even find it in himself to be dejected. Did he expect anything else?</p>
<p>The air is bleak and Enjolras stands in the centre of it all, his proud shoulders yet unbent as he speaks, “Those of you who have families, who have people who need them, please return home.”</p>
<p>Some do, but the Amis stay.</p>
<p>He tries to tell Gavroche to go, to send him home. But he refuses, taking note of the way they count supplies and share parting glances. If Grantaire could leave Enjolras’ side he would, if only to take Gavroche from this place. But he cannot, and he will bear the weight of that sin along with his many others.</p>
<p>When Gavroche dies, sometime before early dawn, then Grantaire weeps, he cradles the child’s body and kisses the forehead of one who was so bright in life. If he had the coins, he would place them over Gavroche’s eyes that he might find passage with the ferryman, instead, he mutters old prayers of loss and grief until Bossuet untangles him from the body and in an act of charity passes him the bottle.</p>
<p>Before dawn touches the world in all her rosy-fingered splendour they sit together in stillness, no word passes between them, not even from fine Apollo’s lips. They trade glances, pressing them into each other’s memories that perhaps one might carry the rest with them.</p>
<p>At dawn, the barricade falls.</p>
<p>Grantaire fights as if he is in Ilium, or in battle beside great Alexander, or it is as if they are before the bull once more.</p>
<p>It is not enough.</p>
<p>They die all around him, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Grantaire stumbles towards Enjolras as the soldiers level their guns at them, he reaches out his hand asks, “Permets-tu?”</p>
<p>And in that moment, Enjolras eyes brighten with recognition, with remembrance as his hand clasps Grantaire’s. Enjolras mouths his name, his first one as the bullets bite into their skin and death once more sweeps her veil over their eyes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all for reading! At the moment I have this marked as 1 chapter, but I'm considering writing one from Enjolras perspective, and maybe one in modern day. Let me know what you think. Comments are always appreciated, thank you!</p>
<p>Some annotations/translations<br/>“… nothing gold can stay,” Grantaire is quoting Robert Frost who wrote the poem in 1923, particularly apt.<br/>Sonnet 18 – Shakespeare<br/>Sonnet 75 – Edmund Spenser<br/>Now Love, the ineluctable, with bitter sweetness /Fills me, overwhelms me, and shakes my being – Quoted by Hephaestion, Sappho.<br/>On cigarettes according to Wikipedia: By 1830, the cigarette had crossed into France, where it received the name cigarette; and in 1845, the French state tobacco monopoly began manufacturing them. It’s doubtful that Grantaire would have one but we’ll excuse that.<br/>λατρεία μου - My adored<br/>Thou forgettest me - Sappho</p></blockquote></div></div>
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